The Burgess Bird Book for Children by Thornton W. Burgess (books for new readers TXT) 📖

or near the ground,” replied Dotty. “You know I am really a ground bird although I am called a Tree Sparrow. Most of us Sparrows spend our time on or near the ground.”

“I know,” replied Peter. “Do you know I’m very fond of the Sparrow family. I just love your cousin Chippy, who nests in the Old Orchard every spring. I wish he would stay all winter. I really don’t see why he doesn’t. I should think he could if you can.”

Dotty laughed. It was a tinkling little laugh, good to hear. “Cousin Chippy would starve to death,” he declared. “It is all a matter of food. You ought to know that by this time, Peter. Cousin Chippy lives chiefly on worms and bugs and I live almost wholly on seeds, and that is what makes the difference. Cousin Chippy must go where he can get plenty to eat. I can get plenty here and so I stay.”

“Did you and your relatives come down from the Far North alone?” asked Peter.

“No,” replied Dotty promptly. “Slaty the Junco and his relatives came along with us and we had a very merry party.”

Peter pricked up his ears. “Is Slaty here now?” he asked eagerly.

“Very much here,” replied a voice right behind Peter’s back. It was so unexpected that it made Peter jump. He turned to find Slaty himself chuckling merrily as he picked up seeds. He was very nearly the same size as Dotty but trimmer. In fact he was one of the trimmest, neatest appearing of all of Peter’s friends. There was no mistaking Slaty the Junco for any other bird. His head, throat and breast were clear slate color. Underneath he was white. His sides were grayish. His outer tail feathers were white. His bill was flesh color. It looked almost white.

“Welcome! Welcome!” cried Peter. “Are you here to stay all winter?”

I certainly am,” was Slaty’s prompt response. “It will take pretty bad weather to drive me away from here. If the snow gets too deep I’ll just go up to Farmer Brown’s barnyard. I can always pick up a meal there, for Farmer Brown’s boy is a very good friend of mine. I know he won’t let me starve, no matter what the weather is. I think it is going to snow some more. I like the snow. You know I am sometimes called the Snowbird.”

Peter nodded. “So I have heard,” said he, “though I think that name really belongs to Snowflake the Snow Bunting.”

“Quite right, Peter, quite right,” replied Slaty. “I much prefer my own name of Junco. My, these seeds are good!” All the time he was busily picking up seeds so tiny that Peter didn’t even see them.

“If you like here so much why don’t you stay all the year?” inquired Peter.

“It gets too warm,” replied Slaty promptly,

“I hate hot weather. Give me cold weather every time.”

“Do you mean to tell me that it is cold all summer where you nest in the Far North?” demanded Peter.

“Not exactly cold,” replied Slaty, “but a lot cooler than it is down here. I don’t go as far north to nest as Snowflake does, but I go far enough to be fairly comfortable. I don’t see how some folks can stand hot weather.”

“It is a good thing they can,” interrupted Dotty. “If everybody liked the same things it wouldn’t do at all. Just suppose all the birds ate nothing but seeds. There wouldn’t be seeds enough to go around, and a lot of us would starve. Then, too, the worms and the bugs would eat up everything. So, take it all together, it is a mighty good thing that some birds live almost wholly on worms and bugs and such things, leaving the seeds to the rest of us. I guess Old Mother Nature knew what she was about when she gave us different tastes.”

Peter nodded his head in approval. “You can always trust Old Mother Nature to know what is best,” said he sagely. “By the way, Slaty, what do you make your nest of and where do you put it?”

“My nest is usually made of grasses, moss and rootlets. Sometimes it is lined with fine grasses, and when I am lucky enough to find them I use long hairs. Often I put my nest on the ground, and never very far above it. I am like my friend Dotty in this respect. It always seems to me easier to hide a nest on the ground than anywhere else. There is nothing like having a nest well hidden. It takes sharp eyes to find my nest, I can tell you that, Peter Rabbit.”

Just then Dotty, who had been picking seeds out of the top of a weed, gave a cry of alarm and instantly there was a flit of many wings as Dotty and his relatives and Slaty sought the shelter of the bushes along the edge of the field. Peter sat up very straight and looked this way and looked that way. At first he saw nothing suspicious. Then, crouching flat among the weeds, he got a glimpse of Black Pussy, the cat from Farmer Brown’s house. She had been creeping up in the hope of catching one of those happy little seedeaters. Peter stamped angrily. Then with long jumps he started for the dear Old Briar-patch, lipperty-lipperty-lip, for truth to tell, big as he was, he was a little afraid of Black Pussy.

 

CHAPTER XLI More Friends Come With the Snow.

Slaty the Junco had been quite right in thinking it was going to snow some more. Rough Brother North Find hurried up one big cloud after another, and late that afternoon the white feathery flakes came drifting down out of the sky.

Peter Rabbit sat tight in the dear Old Briar-patch. In fact Peter did no moving about that night, but remained squatting just inside the entrance to an old hole Johnny Chuck’s grandfather had dug long ago in the middle of the clear Old Briar-patch. Some time before morning the snow stopped falling and then rough Brother North Wind worked as hard to blow away the clouds as he had done to bring them.

When jolly, round, bright Mr. Sun began his daily climb up in the blue, blue sky he looked down on a world of white. It seemed as if every little snowflake twinkled back at every little sunbeam. It was all very lovely, and Peter Rabbit rejoiced as he scampered forth in quest of his breakfast.

He started first for the weedy field where the day before he had found Dotty the Tree Sparrow and Slaty the Junco. They were there before him, having the very best time ever was as they picked seeds from the tops of the weeds which showed above the snow. Almost at once Peter discovered that they were not the only seekers for seeds. Walking about on the snow, and quite as busy seeking seeds as were Dotty and Slaty, was a bird very near their size the top of whose head, neck and back were a soft rusty-brown. There was some black on his wings, but the latter were mostly white and the outer tail feathers were white. His breast and under parts were white. It was Snowflake the Snow Bunting in his winter suit. Peter knew him instantly. There was no mistaking him, for, as Peter well knew, there is no other bird of his size and shape who is so largely white. He had appeared so unexpectedly that it almost seemed as if he must have come out of the snow clouds just as had the snow itself. Peter had his usual question ready.

“Are you going to spend the winter here, Snowflake?” he cried.

Snowflake was so busy getting his breakfast that he did not reply at once. Peter noticed that he did not hop, but walked or ran. Presently he paused long enough to reply to Peter’s question. “If the snow has come to stay all winter, perhaps I’ll stay,” said he.

“What has the snow to do with it?” demanded Peter.

“Only that I like the snow and I like cold weather. When the snow begins to disappear, I just naturally fly back farther north,” replied Snowflake. “It isn’t that I don’t like bare ground, because I do, and I’m always glad when the snow is blown off in places so that I can hunt for seeds on the ground. But when the snow begins to melt everywhere I feel uneasy. I can’t understand how folks can be contented where there is no snow and ice. You don’t catch me going ‘way down south. No, siree, you don’t catch me going ‘way down south. Why, when the nesting season comes around, I chase Jack Frost clear ‘way up to where he spends the summer. I nest ‘way up on the shore of the Polar Sea, but of course you don’t know where that is, Peter Rabbit.”

“If you are so fond of the cold in the Far North, the snow and the ice, what did you come south at all for? Why don’t you stay up there all the year around?” demanded Peter.

“Because, Peter,” replied Snowflake, twittering merrily, “like everybody else, I have to eat in order to live. When you see me down here you may know that the snows up north are so deep that they have covered all the seeds. I always keep a weather eye out, as the saying is, and the minute it looks as if there would be too much snow for me to get a living, I move along. I hope I will not have to go any farther than this, but if some morning you wake up and find the snow so deep that all the heads of the weeds are buried, don’t expect to find me.”

“That’s what I call good, sound common sense,” said another voice, and a bird a little bigger than Snowflake, and who at first glance seemed to be dressed almost wholly in soft chocolate brown, alighted in the snow close by and at once began to run about in search of seeds. It was Wanderer the Horned Lark. Peter hailed him joyously, for there was something of mystery about Wanderer, and Peter, as you know, loves mystery.

Peter had known him ever since his first winter, yet did not feel really acquainted, for Wanderer seldom stayed long enough for a real acquaintance. Every winter he would come, sometimes two or three times, but seldom staying more than a few days at a time. Quite often he and his relatives appeared with the Snowflakes, for they are the best of friends and travel much together.

Now as Wanderer reached up to pick seeds from a weed-top, Peter had a good look at him. The first things he noticed were the two little horn-like tufts of black feathers above and behind the eyes. It is from these that Wanderer gets the name of Horned Lark. No other bird has anything quite like them. His forehead, a line over each eye, and his throat were yellow. There was a black mark from each corner of the bill curving downward just below the eye and almost joining a black crescent-shaped band across the breast. Beneath this he was soiled white with dusky spots showing here and there. His back was brown, in places having almost a pinkish tinge. His tail was black, showing a little white on the edges when he flew. All together he was a handsome little fellow.

“Do all of your family have those funny little horns?” asked Peter.

“No,” was Wanderer’s prompt reply. “Mrs. Lark does not have them.”

“I think they are very becoming,” said Peter politely.

“Thank you,” replied Wanderer. “I am inclined to agree with you. You should see me when I